


By chance two separate glances meet, and I am you and what I see is me

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Hacking, Inspired by Music, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smut, Suicide Attempt, don't ask why, i can't spoil it just read it, nerd stuff, pink floyd - Freeform, porn with space references, space porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>[...] It was a man. Shorter in height comparing to him, the stranger was wearing a long, double-breasted black coat, which Sherlock could bet it was extremely expensive. His hair was perfectly backcombed with the right amount of product, and everything in his appearance suggested that it had been carefully arranged to look exactly how it did. The stranger was staring at the landscape in front of him, an intense gaze in his dark eyes, and, as Sherlock slowly approached, he acknowledged that the two of them must’ve been about the same age. [...] </i><br/><br/>university!AU in which Sherlock and James meet in a peculiar occasion, both struggling - though in different ways - with everyday life's boredom.<br/>I definitely suck at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am not afraid of dying, anytime will do, I don't mind

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the work is a line from Pink Floyd's masterpiece Echoes, and every chapter is entitled to one of their songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from The great gig in the sky, one of my personal favorite songs ever, I suggest you to listen to it while reading :)

Summer’s crisp breeze was slowly starting to turn into autumn’s icy wind. It could be felt against the skin, as tiny goose bumps swiftly came out every time he walked outside; it could be smelled in the air, too, as the typical perfume of flowers and sea was gradually being replaced by the intense scent of rain and falling leaves.  
  
The warm shade of the bridge lights dyed everything of a peculiar hue of orange, and it almost gave the impression of observing the world from a pair of coloured spectacles: diametrically opposite from the white, cold lights of the organic synthesis’ laboratory, so bright that the human eye could almost be blinded by them, or from the dim, intimate lights of his small apartment in Baker Street.  
  
That’s what Sherlock Holmes was pondering as he was quietly walking down Albert Bridge Road, hands in his pockets, a Marlboro Gold between his lips. He was the only person around, as expected, since it was already four in the morning.  
  
Earlier that evening, John and him had gone out for drinks. He had the funny idea of stealing a graduated cylinder from the lab and bringing it to every pub they visited, in order to make it refill with beer. After coming back home almost unable to stand on their feet, they decided to try and take on a game, which basically consisted in guessing the character’s name they had written on a piece of rolling paper and stuck on each other’s foreheads. After learning that his own character was no less than Madonna, John decided it was time for him to sleep: he had apprenticeship at the operating theatre on the morning after, and surely couldn’t show up with a hangover when he was supposed to knead somebody’s intestines. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling tired at all, and even though he had scheduled mass-spectrometry lessons early on the next day, he chose to have a brief smoke outside. The so-called brief smoke, though, had inexplicably turned into a four miles-long walk to the Thames’ bank.  
  
Feeling a bit dizzy due to the blood alcohol level through the roof, Sherlock took the last, deep drag from his cigarette; then he threw it away, with a snap of fingers, in the calm riverbed of London’s celebre watercourse. He brought a hand on his head to pull back his dark curls, messed by a faint blow of breeze; admiring the astonishing beauty of the metropolis’ nocturnal view, he couldn’t help considering that everybody should experience, at least once in a lifetime, the British capital in the dead of night.  
  
He was accurately examining the colourful reflections of streetlights on the river’s dark and polluted water, when he casually noticed a slim figure standing very close to the edge of the wall.  
  
It was a man. Shorter in height comparing to him, the stranger was wearing a long, double-breasted black coat, which Sherlock could bet it was extremely expensive. His hair was perfectly backcombed with the right amount of product, and everything in his appearance suggested that it had been carefully arranged to look exactly how it did. The stranger was staring at the landscape in front of him, an intense gaze in his dark eyes, and, as Sherlock slowly approached, he acknowledged that the two of them must’ve been about the same age.  
  
Then, as if the spell that kept his eyes fixed on the river’s stream abruptly shattered, the young man flinched. He rummaged in his pocket, an impassive expression on his oval face, and took something shiny out of it. Now his attention was exclusively focused on the item he had just extracted from his coat, which showed up in its clarity against the dark, English night.  
  
He stretched his right arm ahead of him, holding the gleaming object – which now clearly appeared to be a knife – with his left hand’s long and slender fingers, and lifted his designer coat’s sleeve up to his elbow, careful not to tear it off; then, he pressed the silver blade against his wrist’s pale skin.  
  
Sherlock’s mind suddenly went blank. Before he could even fully realise what he was doing, his legs were already running desperately toward the man’s direction, in a reckless attempt to avoid that he succeeded in whatever his pursuit was.  
  
The stranger shut his eyes and exhaled deeply.

_“A life that only takes to face death to be scarred and crippled, maybe, is only a fragile piece of glass.”_

As he solemnly spoke his last words, his eyelids lowered as if he was meditating, the blade slid against the soft and thin layer of flesh. It created a crimson path behind it, and it almost seemed like tiny red roses were all of a sudden starting to bloom out of his forearm. The blood started to flow, copious, and the man threw the knife on his side; he then leaned against the fencing, getting ready to jump.

_“NO!”_

Sherlock howled with all the voice he had in his lungs, panting. The stranger promptly tilted his head and faced him, astounded, while sparkles of surprise and anger dazzled in his hazel eyes. Before he could accomplish his goal, Sherlock violently grabbed his arm, now almost soaked in blood, and made the both of them crumble on the opposite side, against the hard, asphalted sidewalk.  
  
The stranger started to desperately shake his legs, screaming hysterically. He frenziedly tried to free himself from the other man’s grasp, but the Sherlock held him tight between his strong arms.

“Let me – you fucking bastard, you ruined _everything_!” he cried, his voice cracking as he shouted the words with all the rage he was capable of.

The blood was still flowing from the cut on his right forearm, and Sherlock realised he was soon going to faint. Without further ado, he ripped an edge of his t-shirt and quickly rolled it around the other one’s wrist. 

“You…ruined…everything…” the smaller man feebly whispered one last time, before passing out.

Sherlock, almost panicking, immediately reached out for the phone in his pocket and frantically dialled the emergency’s number; luckily, somebody answered just after a few rings.

“Yes – a man just tried to take his life by cutting his wrists – I’m on Albert Bridge! Come as quickly as you can, he just passed out!”

After hanging up, Sherlock immediately turned to the stranger whom he was carefully holding in his own arms, unconscious but still breathing.  
  
Before that very moment he hadn’t realised how petite the young man was. Not only for his stature – he must’ve been less than 175 cm, definitely shorter than Sherlock – but his shoulders and waist, as well, seemed so small compared to his own. The frightened, terrified frown on his face reminded Sherlock of a scared animal cornered by its natural predator, without any way out.  
  
He looked fragile, just like he could break even with a wind’s blow; and, as soon as Sherlock checked his pulse, he knew that life was slowly starting to slip away from the skinny body.

“Stay with me, please, don’t – _don’t leave me now_ –” he murmured, holding the cloth steady against the stranger’s wrist.

It was just a question of time before he could hear the sound of sirens approaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words pronounced by Jim before cutting his wrist are a quote from one of my favorite writers, Yukio Mishima, and in general his suicide attempt was inspired by Mishima's own, it's supposed to be a "ritual suicide".  
> Beta'd by my cousin, TheKeyOfFailure, double-checked by jimmriarty (thank you so much girls. <3)  
> The story will be pretty slow. Chapters will be about 1000/1500 words each, I already have some ready to post but I still don't know how long the whole work will be! I'll try posting once a week, maybe more frequently.  
> Let me know what you think, comments & critics are more than well accepted <3


	2. Breakfast in Los Angeles, macrobiotic stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from "Alan's psychedelic breakfast", from the album "Atom Heart Mother".

“He’s out of danger. He’s going to be fine soon.”

The doctor’s words made Sherlock sigh in relief, as if he’d just thrown an enormous and heavy rock off his shoulders. He brought a hand on his head, ruffling his dark curls, then took a tissue out of his pocket and dried the cold drops of sweat that were shining on his forehead.

“Thank God” he uttered in response, as the physician turned on her heels and went back into the hospital room, shutting the white doors behind her back.

It was already past six in the morning and Sherlock had slept for a total of less than twenty minutes. He was supposed to show up at college for his first morning lesson at nine, and he knew the professor wouldn’t be happy to catch him snoring during the lecture.

He wondered about what to do next. The young man looked extremely angry when Sherlock destroyed his plan of taking his own life, so he wasn’t sure that waiting for him to wake up was a good idea. Now that the doctors had confirmed that his life wasn’t endangered anymore, Sherlock could feel his conscience clear. He did his utmost to save the stranger’s life, but he didn’t want nor he had the time to hear his complaints about not letting him suicide in peace.

Quietly yawning, Sherlock collected his coat and walked through St. Bart’s hospital’s main exit. Daylight unmercifully hit his tired eyes, now circled by a pair of dark and big bags, as he led toward Baker Street.

He didn’t really have the time to sleep before going to college, so he decided to stop by a coffee shop on the way home and grab breakfast for his roommate and him; the only open café at that time, tough, was an extremely fancy, American, organic franchise – place that he would’ve definitely avoided if he could choose. He had to count the money three times before giving the waitress the correct amount, all this before the pithy eyes of other five clients; but, to be completely honest, he didn’t give a damn if all of them thought of him as a boozer or a junkie. In fact, probably for the first time in his whole life, he had every right in the world to look like he just came back from the grave.

He even had to place a hand against the wall to keep his balance, as he was climbing the creaking stairs to his apartment, in order to prevent from falling and spilling the two cups of coffee he just bought. John must’ve noticed the awkward noises coming from downstairs, as he immediately ran out of the door to check and see what the hell was happening. His blonde head suddenly popped out of the landing, a perplexed frown on his friendly face.

_“Sherlock?”_

“Hey” the other one answered, yawning again.

“Where – where the hell have you been, Sherlock? I woke up at 5:45 and your bed was empty. I don’t want to sound like your mother, I know, your diversions are none of my business, but you could at least sent me a message”, complained his best friend, furrowing his eyebrows in exasperation.

“Please, John. You’re sounding like my _brother_ , which is even worse.”

“At least tell me you didn’t end up in some slum sticking a needle in your forearm” caustically replied John, helping his flatmate with the tray and letting him come in.

Sherlock collapsed on his personal recliner, exhausted, letting his arms fall beside him, sighing. The other man handed him one of the two cups of coffee, then sit in the other armchair in front of his friend’s one, taking a sip.

“So, will you tell me what happened or not?”

The dark-haired young man pushed on his elbows, trying to rise from the soft and cosy seatback of the easy chair, then grabbed the cup that John had placed on the table between them. He brought it to his lips and quaffed his coffee, already cold, hoping that caffeine would do the trick as soon as possible.

“I prevented some random guy from taking his life”, he finally blurted, breathing out heavily.

John stared astonished as his flatmate ended his sentence. “ _What?_ Are you – are you _serious_?”

“Yes” Sherlock explained, touching his temples and meeting the other one’s deep blue eyes. “I’ve just come back from St. Bart’s, to make sure he was out of danger. He cut his wrist with a knife then tried to jump off Albert Bridge.”

“For Christ’s sake, he really wanted to get through with this.”

The alleged chemist took another sip from his white paper cup. “He did. He yelled at me like crazy when I tried and stopped him. Whatever he was trying to do, he must’ve been planning it for a long time.”

John’s face took on a worried expression, as he drank the last drop of coffee remained. “That’s creepy” he commented, rising from his chair. “But you did what you had to do. At least he’ll think twice before trying again.”

“Indeed” yawned Sherlock, his eyelids dangerously shutting a bit more with every word he spoke.

Silence fell between the two of them, and the fair, young man took his heavy, grey jacket from the coat rack next to the apartment’s front door.

“Anyway, I really need to go out now” he then responded after a while, checking the watch on his left wrist. “I have to be at the hospital in half an hour. And” he added, frowning at his flatmate as he was curling himself in his favourite armchair, “you should be going too, since you have lectures as well.”

“Yeah, sure” mumbled the other one, already snuggling in Morpheus’ comfortable embrace.

John shook his head, concerned for his altruist but unconscious best friend; then he put on his coat, and quietly got out of the wooden door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, you're all mad at me because there's no Sheriarty in this chapter, but I felt the need to introduce Sherlock's and John relationship, and a quick view of their domestic life, before further developing the story. I'm not really good at writing John, though, so I hope I won't go OOC with him because he's the character whom I've less placed (and one of my least favorite. Sorry Johnny-boy).  
> Though, I have to say I'm SO excited for chapter 3! I hope you guys will like it. Other characters will be introduced, including my personal favorites (but I can't tell you anything! :3) and, well...you'll see.  
> Please let me know what you think through comments, and if anybody wants to contact me go to my twitter account, I'm @chesapeakedip :)  
> See you on Wednesday! <3 Mary xx


	3. Who let all of this riff-raff into the room?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from In the flesh part 1, from the celebre album The Wall :)

Avoiding to fall asleep during a boring lesson, especially after saving somebody’s life and sleeping more or less half an hour, definitely was an underrated task, as Sherlock could acknowledge while yawning over his biochemistry textbook.

His head was spinning and buzzing as if there was a beehive stuck in his brains. Of course, the professor’s mellow tone didn’t really help in keeping his attention up, as neither the subject itself did.

Forensic chemistry had always seemed the only possible path in life for Sherlock Holmes. Since his brother Mycroft and him were kids, they used to challenge themselves in what they called _science of deduction_. In the beginning, it consisted in accurately studying objects in order to guess their possessor’s features, habits and lifestyle; as they grew up their purposes became more and more ambitious, and they amused themselves by attempting to solve archived and still unresolved crimes. Sherlock dreamed of working in a lab, analysing the evidence after collecting it from the crime scene, providing, with his profound and solid knowledge of science, to all the rough mistakes the police kept committing. Nonetheless he’d never accept to work under somebody else’s supervision: he wasn’t born with a good temper, and he surely would never stand following some stupid investigator’s orders. In his own, brilliant brain he had coined a particular expression for his dream job: _consulting detective_.

His older brother, on the other hand, was completely different from him. Besides the fact that he was a little bit overweight – as Sherlock loved to point out every time he had the chance to – Mycroft didn’t really enjoy anything that involved action. He was extremely slow-paced and controlled in everything he did, and rush was a concept totally alien to him. Though Sherlock hated admitting it, his sibling was gifted with a brighter mind than his, not to mention the fact that he had a knack for persuading other people to do whatever he wanted. Due to all these reasons, Mycroft applied to law school, confident that someday he’d be able to become the British government himself.

Of course, Sherlock ended up falling sound asleep during the lecture, and he was abruptly awakened only by the fastidious vibe of the smartphone in his trousers’ pocket. He slid his finger on the touchscreen to open a text, blinking a few times due to the high luminosity.

_Hey tiger. Party on Friday night, 7 pm, my place. Bring your pretty doctor with you. Who knows, I might be up for a threesome._

It was from Irene. Sherlock met her for the first time a couple months before, in one of the most embarrassing occasions he had ever found himself into: he surprised her on top of one of his colleagues, completely naked, and she introduced herself without even bothering to put something on. Not only was she one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen, but she had charisma, too, and thanks to her charm she literally drove everybody crazy. Thus, she had earned the well-suited nickname of _Dominatrix_.

Sherlock, though, was immune to her fatal allure. He didn’t like her, as everybody else did, solely for her killer body and perfect face, but for her acumen and perspicacity – that’s why, after an initial period of awkwardness, they had established a pleasant and mutual friendship.

During their acquaintance, though, he never had the chance to visit Irene’s residence before, and Sherlock was curious to see if it matched her peculiar personality.

_Sure. I’ll bring some red wine too. – SH_

Sherlock typed the message then put his phone back in his pocket, all under the irritated gaze of his biochemistry professor.

To be totally fair, he wasn’t really eager to be surrounded by a crowd of screaming humans, who agitated their sweaty bodies like epileptics to the rhythm of awful music. But one couldn’t simply decline Irene Adler’s invitation. Sherlock knew for sure that she’d be terribly upset and would end up refusing to speak to him, so he didn’t have any other choices but going.

Therefore on the due date, after five hours of multiple lectures in the morning and three of laboratory in the afternoon, the two flatmates exited the front door of their apartment in 221B, Baker Street. While his best friend didn’t care about appearances at all, John took almost an hour to get ready for the event: in fact, contrarily to Sherlock’s attitude toward parties and social activities in general, he was enthusiastic about the invitation. Irene and him had met only a few times, but got along quite well; in fact, they actually started getting along when John became sure that there wasn’t any kind of romantic entanglement between his roommate and her.

Sherlock had no idea why John acted in such a protective way toward him. He was always concerned about Sherlock’s habits, whether he still used drugs or not, if he had missed any lessons or arrived late, even if he had eaten enough during the day. Their relationship was pretty bizarre and Irene had noticed it from Sherlock’s conversations; that’s why she often mocked him, saying that the two of them were in love with each other but too dull to realise it, but he never addressed her innuendos.

After a fifteen minutes-long walk, the two of them finally arrived in front of a luxurious and tall building, close to Buckingham Palace. As they rang the doorbell, somebody lifted the intercom and they heard an indistinct chatter, then the host’s voice which excitedly commanded them to come in.

Irene’s apartment was at the tenth floor. In the lift, John chuckled at Sherlock as he saw the terror in his friend’s face, as if they were going to the gallows instead of a harmless, ordinary party.

As soon as the door opened, Irene’s dazzling smile welcomed them into the loft.

“Finally!” she uttered, giggling, “Ladies and gentlemen, my two favourite men have arrived. Sherlock, darling, I’m so glad to see you. John, you look stunning in that shirt. Be careful, or I might try and tear it off you” she added, laying a soft kiss on both men’s cheeks.

“So happy to see you too, Irene”, the two best friends chorused.

The flat was crowded. Sherlock couldn’t figure out how actually big it was because there were guests everywhere. Loud music was coming from the speakers all over the house, and he recognised the refrain of a song by John’s favourite band, the Arctic Monkeys. He glimpsed some of his other friends, too, such as Gregory Lestrade, who was doing an apprenticeship to become detective investigator, and Molly Hooper, one of John’s classmates, and shyly waved at them.

Irene swiftly took Sherlock under her arm and dragged him to the kitchen, while John desperately tried to follow them passing through the horde of festive people.

“I need to introduce you to someone” the brunette said, beaming. “Jim!” she then screamed out loud, trying to stand above the noise, “Jimmy, honey, come here. You really need to meet these two handsome gentlemen.”

A dark-haired young man shifted through the crowd, a bored frown on his oval, perfect face, and stopped next to Irene.

“Sherlock, John, this is James, my lovely flatmate. James, these are Sherlock and John. They’re both single.”

Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet James’ hazel one, and he immediately flinched. Confused and unexpected flashbacks of Albert Bridge by night, a knife, blood everywhere and a desperate rush to the hospital forcefully stroke Sherlock’s brains like a blizzard, freezing him. They stayed like that for quite some time, perfectly still, intensely staring into each other’s eyes and totally unable to move or speak.

“Jesus, guys” Irene laughed, completely unaware of what happened between the two, “do I need to get you a _room_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAMES MORIARTY STRIKES BACK! Ahhhhh, I'm so excited for him, he's my favorite character in the whole show and of course I have big plans for him in this fanfic.  
> Just so that you know, even if this is an AU I'm still trying to follow the canonical characters, so Sherlock's still a high functioning sociopath and Jim is - well, he's Jim, I don't think I can describe him in any different way.  
> And, about Irene joking over the fact that Sherlock and John are in love, there's going to be a little bit of one-sided Johnlock but nothing relevant, that's why I'm not even using the Johnlock tag.  
> Let me know what you think.  
> See you on Sunday! <3  
> Mary xx


	4. If I go insane, please don’t put your wires in my brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title comes from "If", second track of the album Atom Heart Mother (my favorite album from Pink Floyd). You'll find the lyrics hereinafter the chapter too. I also feel the need to apologize in advance because this chapter is full of music references and I hope you won't mind :)

Irene’s question lingered in the air, remaining completely ignored by either of the two young men. John turned to Sherlock’s side, irritated, not understanding what was going on between them; Sherlock, though, couldn’t help but keep staring at the hazel, profound irises in front of him, his mind totally blank.

It was James, though, the one who broke the magic spell.

“If you want to get into my pants, honey, you just need to _ask_ ” he purred in his mellifluous, accented tone. Then, he stretched his left arm out to shake hands with Sherlock, while his right hand slowly slipped into his blazer’s pocket. “James Moriarty. _Very_ pleased to meet you indeed.”

Sherlock hesitated then shook his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John, confused and uncomfortable, stretched his arm out as well. “Sorry if I’m interrupting anything, anyway I’m John Watson.”

“Sorry John, you’re not my type” James answered, avoiding to shake the fair man’s hand, his thin, pale lips curved into a devilish smile, gaze still fixed on Sherlock.

Irene laughed. “Come on, Jim, restrain your hormones.”

The Irishman smirked to his flatmate, then excused himself. “Apologies, lady and gentlemen, but my potential next shag is waiting for me. It was _wonderful_ to meet you, Sherlock Holmes”, he added, before turning on his heels and going to chat with a handsome man on the balcony.

Irene burst into another laugh, almost crying. “Seems like you impressed him, Sherlock. Anyway, I need to take care of some stuff now, but I’ll be back soon. Leave the bottle on the counter then come and dance!” 

The two flatmates were suddenly left alone. Sherlock, still shaken by the astonishing encounter, slowly turned his attention to John’s side, just to find the veins on his roommate’s temples about to pop out.

_“WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?”_ he bitterly exclaimed.

“I honestly have no idea”, muttered Sherlock in response, still violently shocked.

“Have you ever met him before?” John asked, anxious to hear a plausible explanation to Sherlock’s reaction.

The curly-haired man dithered for a minute, dwelling upon whether he should tell his best friend or no. “No”, he then replied, getting a grip of himself, “never.”

Julian Casablancas’ rough American accent spread out in the room as the guests let loose to _Last Nite_ ’s rapid rhythm, and the two flatmates, after having a glass of red wine, joined their friends in the feverish dance.

Molly almost jumped in excitement as soon as Sherlock appeared by her side – everybody knew that she had an enormous crush over him, exception made, of course, for the interested party. Lestrade, on the other hand, was mournful and heartbroken because his girlfriend dumped him a few days before. As soon as the others learned about his condition, the main purpose of the night quickly became getting him as drunker as possible. After making him swallow five beers and an unspecified number of shots, the poor guy ended up puking from the terrace; then, with big efforts, he reached for the bathroom. Molly held Greg’s head as he was curled over the toilet, apologising for his embarrassing behaviour and cursing his ex, while Sherlock and John bent over with laughter.

Throughout the whole party, though, Sherlock couldn’t help but repeatedly glancing at James, who reciprocated the fleeting glimpses from time to time, whenever he wasn’t too busy sticking his tongue in somebody else’s mouth. The charming, eccentric young man dressed in a Vivienne Westwood suit, now busy flirting with a Scandinavian exchange student, looked completely different from the terrified, defenceless creature Sherlock had held in his arms just a few days before. If it hadn’t been for the bandages around his right wrist – meticulously disguised to look like a contusion – and that pair of unforgettably hazel, breath-taking eyes, Sherlock wouldn’t have recognised him at all.

It was almost three in the morning and the party was about to end. The catchy rhythm of Alternative-indie rock bands had been replaced with the chilling notes of Pink Floyd’s celebre album _Atom Heart Mother_. Greg lay on the white leather sofa in the living room, a damp cloth on his forehead and a bowl by his side, while Molly and John talked about university issues, keeping an eye on him. Sherlock, not really interested in knowing how complicated the psychiatry exam was, nor eager to see his friend throwing up again, decided to go out on the terrace and have smoke.

As soon as he took the lighter out of his pocket, though, he realised he wasn’t alone. James was leaning against the balcony’s fencing, a glass of red wine in his hand, the same, intent look in his eyes that he had on the first time they met. Just like that night, he was intensely staring at the landscape in front of him, and noticed Sherlock’s presence only when the Englishman lit his cigarette.

Jim suddenly turned to his guest’s side, hesitating, and met his eyes with an impassive look; Sherlock, quite confused on how to cope, offered him the Marlboro Gold’s package. The host blinked, perplexed, then he took a cigarette from the other one’s hand, without saying a word.

They smoked their own cigarettes in absolute silence, briefly peeking at each other every now and then. Sherlock tilted his head toward Jim’s side and, as the brown eyes were fixed on the pale moon’s contour, he could again catch sight of the sad flash that constricted his chest on their previous encounter.

The Irishman felt the other one’s gaze on himself, and turned to face him. He took three steps forward, stopping dangerously close to the other man, and Sherlock could sense his hot, damp breath against his skin.

The deck was now playing the second track from the album, _If_. Sherlock’s heart pounded like mad as the hazel, hypnotic irises stared back at him, piercing his skull, and Roger Waters’ mellow tone sang: _“If I go insane, will you still let me join in the game?”_.

“If you dare saying a word about what happened” James whispered, their lips almost touching, “I swear to God _I will burn you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first time my babies actually talk! :') ahhhh I'm so excited for them, and I assure you in the next chapters things will get... _interesting_.  
>  As usual, comments & kudos are definitely appreciated. Let me know what you think!  
> See you on Wednesday guys <3  
> Mary xx


	5. I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's title comes from the celebre Brain Damage, from the album Dark side of the moon.

“Holmes, are you with us?”

Sherlock flinched, as the professor’s annoyed question forcefully dragged him back to reality. All of his classmates turned toward his direction and the teacher eerily looked at him, before going back to explaining the technical inspections in the preliminary investigation.

“Hey, you okay?” Anderson asked, worriedly.

“Yeah, just a bit – tired” Sherlock mumbled to the young man sitting next to him, cutting short.

Truth was, a week had already passed and he still hadn’t stop thinking about that _bastard_ named James Moriarty. What happened between them was unbelievable – it literally kept him up all night, and he had often found himself mulling over their two odd encounters at the weirdest hours of the day. Nor helped the fact that the man was so _intriguing_ , yet definitely _scary_.

The phrase that Jim told him just before he departed Irene’s flat, _“I will burn you”_ , was planted in his brains as if it’d grown roots. It was a common sentence that any angry person could say; Sherlock had heard similar intimidations many times before, like the day Molly yelled at Greg because he spilled his glass of red wine all over her brand new, white silk dress – what really left him astounded wasn’t the choice of words, but rather the _tone_ used by the Irishman. His sweet, cooing voice had suddenly turned into a furious roar, which promptly made Sherlock’s blood run cold.

It was a threat. Though in which way James wanted to go through with it, if literally or not, Sherlock still had no idea.

Still wandering with his mind to last week’s events – and unbearably stinking due to the fact that he had to use butyric acid for that afternoon’s experiment – he spread out the door to his apartment with a kick. He wasn’t properly glad, thus, to glimpse a familiar, precociously balding ginger head popping out of his personal armchair.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, clumsily throwing his satchel on John’s chair.

The lawman arose from the easy chair, letting the other one sit and avoiding to meeting his miffed gaze. “Just happened along and came by to say hello, brother mine”, he then answered, nonchalantly.

“Don’t try to fool me, you never do _anything_ without purpose”, the dark-haired sibling replied, hissing; while doing so, he casually noticed his older brother’s shape, oddly slimmer than ever. “What the hell happened to you do, by the way? Did you – did you go on a diet?”

“And started to exercise, too” the redhead specified, a fierce frown on his freckled face. He pressed the wrinkles in his designer shirt, as to underline the fact that he’d lost some weight. “Anyway yes, brother dear, I didn’t stop by without an aim, as you guessed”, he added right after, exhaling deeply.

Narrowing his light-blue eyes, Mycroft carefully examined his younger brother’s figure. During the whole operation Sherlock kept sitting on his recliner, legs crossed and an eyebrow lifted in displeasure, nervously waiting for the other man to speak up.

The thorough inspection lasted only a couple of minutes, but to Sherlock it seemed like a lifetime. He could sense his older brother’s meticulous eyes studying him as if he was a specimen of some peculiar kind of animal: it felt bothersome and uncomfortable and Sherlock felt the compelling urge to run away. The one and only thing he hated more than being deduced by somebody else – something that, fortunately, still hadn’t happened in his whole life – was being deduced by Mycroft himself.

Finally, after a few, intolerable moments of tension, the ginger-head grinned, satisfied of what he’d seen, and solemnly pronounced his verdict.

“I’m glad to see you’re clean.”

In that very moment John appeared from his own room’s door, and Sherlock sighed in relief. He could notice the wonder in his best friend’s eyes as he caught sight of the oldest Holmes sibling, clearly not expecting him to be standing in their living room, as John was aware of the difficult relationship between the two of them. “Oh, hello Mycroft” he greeted his guest, polite, but rather cold. “What brings you here? Would you like to have some tea?”

“Hello John, yes, I’d love – ”

“My brother was just about to get going” the younger brother promptly responded, eerily. Before the ginger could argue, he forcefully pushed him out of the front door, throwing the other one’s precious umbrella down the stairs and shutting the wooden door behind his back. He then leaned against it, still irritated by the unwelcome visit, and breathed out heavily in exhaustion.

“What did he want?” the fair man asked, quietly moving toward the kitchen as his flatmate frantically locked the door, preventing his sibling from coming back inside.

“As usual” Sherlock snarled in response, “he wanted to check on me.”

Sherlock’s rapport with his older brother was complicated. They had always been rivals, since they were kids, mostly because Mycroft adored to highlight, every time he had the chance to, how much more brilliant than Sherlock he was; nevertheless, he was extremely protective toward his little sibling. Since he’d found out about the younger one’s recreational use of drugs, though, his behaviour had become almost _asphyxiating_ : he’d often come and check on Sherlock, to make sure he was clean, without caring to inform the other one of his arrival nor bothering to ask his permission to intrude his personal life.

John poured the tea in two mugs, and handed one of them to his roommate. He lowered his eyelids and smelled the pleasant aroma from his hot, smoking cup, then took a big sip from it. “By the way, tonight I’m going out.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but instead kept savouring his own tea.

“I have a meeting with my study group, there’s Hooper and some other classmates. We really need to practice for Monday’s exam”, the alleged doctor explained, staring at the small, tea-plant leaves that were settled on the bottom of his mug.

The chemist lit a cigarette, then he took a long, intense drag from it; while letting the smoke out, he made a perfect ring, curving his lips. “Okay.”

“I’ll probably get back late, so please, don’t wait for me to bring dinner home” John grinned, referring to his best friend’s strict habit to eat solely when someone else fed him.

As John went back to his room to get ready, Sherlock deeply sank into his armchair, arms folded, losing himself in his own thoughts.

It was Friday night and he didn’t have anything to do. His roommate was going out to study with one of his very few friends, Molly, so he couldn’t hang out with them; Lestrade, on the other hand, was probably still crying over his breakup – as he learned from John, Greg just found out that his ex had also cheated on him – and the last thing Sherlock wanted to was to hear that bullshit all over again. As for Irene, who texted him earlier that day, she had a date with some upper class guy who’d most likely offer her a 300£ dinner and take her to a fancy hotel; the only possible development of his _TGIF_ – God, how he hated that acronym – night, though, seemed to be yelling at crappy TV shows while filling his mouth with analogous food.

A naughty idea unexpectedly popped out of his brains and, suddenly, it seemed the only feasible way of entertainment that night. Since Mycroft had visited him earlier on that very day, it was unlikely he’d be coming back in a short time; besides, Sherlock knew for sure that he soon had an important test to take, as their mother told him the last time she phoned. That, in Sherlock Holmes’ mind, had one and only meaning: he could get high on cocaine without being disturbed.

He had a thing for coke. He tried a lot of other drugs, too – exception made for DMT, that was too much even for him – but cocaine remained his absolute favourite, and if it hadn’t been for his brother’s harangues he probably would’ve ended up in rehab.

He was already savouring the bitter taste of the drug in his nose, beaming just at the thought of it, when his flatmate’s joyful voice momentarily distracted him from his plots.

“I better get going, or I’ll run late. Don’t forget to eat!” John shouted as he was stepping out of the front door.

“Yes mom”, Sherlock sarcastically replied, but the other one was already out of the flat.

As soon as he heard John greeting Miss Hudson, their landlady, Sherlock feverishly jumped off his armchair and grabbed his violin. He was so enthusiastic about his program for the night that he needed to calm a bit down first, and there was nothing better than losing himself to Tchaikovsky’s relaxing notes to arrange the last details of his Friday evening.

After over an hour spent playing, everything in Sherlock’s mind was settled and he was ready to accomplish his plan. He wore his favourite black coat and rolled his scarf around his neck; he then took a weird-looking hat that John had given him for Christmas and put it on his head, just to be sure that nobody could recognise him. When he got out of the building he lit a cigarette, letting it hang from his lips, inhaling the grey smoke and holding it back in his lungs.

His trusted dealer, Kitty, lived in Whitechapel, so he had to take the underground in order to get there. As soon as he caught the train, he took his smartphone out and quickly texted her.

_I’ll be there in 20. I’m having the usual. – SH_

After a couple of minutes, he got her response.

_Ok. Waiting for you. – K_

The ride wasn’t long, but Sherlock couldn’t help stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together in anticipation, arousing some wary glances from the other passengers in the coach. He was basically shaking when he finally pushed the doorbell with his long and slender index, unable to stifle the impatience any longer.

Kitty waited for him on the doormat, clearly stoned, and greeted him with a simple wave of her hand.

“Hey, Sherlock” she murmured, after taking another drag from her joint “I’ll get your stuff in a sec, just wait ‘till I seal the deal with him.”

She nodded toward another man’s direction, turned on his back, frantically typing something on his latest generation smartphone. He was wearing charcoal skinny jeans, a pair of black, Oxford patent leathers and a large t-shirt of the same colour, with a colourful tropical snake print around the neck; his dark, sleek hair was flawlessly combed with the perfect amount of grease. _Everything_ , in his eccentric appearance, screamed utmost luxury.

Sherlock already knew who he was before seeing his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize because this chapter isn't properly beta'd and personally I think it's one of the worst I've ever written. Hope I'll make up for it with the upcoming chapter.  
> See you on Sunday!  
> Mary xx


	6. Lazing in the foggy dew, sitting on a unicorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's title comes from the song "Flaming", from the album "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn". I chose it because it's a song about drugs' effects. By the way, if you feel uncomfortable about use/abuse of drugs, I suggest you to avoid the first part of the chapter.

“Hi” Sherlock muttered, avoiding to meeting the Irishman’s eyes.

James tilted his head toward his direction, and watched Sherlock in surprise. “Holmes” he answered, bewildered, “I’d _never_ expect to meet you here.”

Kitty opened the doors of a closet and grabbed a cylindrical, orange package from of it. “Here, Jim” she told to the other man, “your Adderall. Is one enough?”

“Make it two”, he replied, taking the money out of his wallet and handing it to his dealer.

Sherlock perfectly knew what Adderall was. A mix of the two enantiomers of amphetamine, sold in the United States as a cure for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, very much illegal in the rest of the world. It was also called the _drug of concentration_ ; it was common between university students as it was used to enhance focus during exams and tests. He wondered why somebody like James would take that kind of drugs, as the man placed the two confections in his jeans’ pocket. Moriarty step aside and let the other one take care of his business, but – as Sherlock didn’t miss – he didn’t show any intention of leaving the girl’s flat soon.

Kitty rummaged in another drawer and took a little bag of white powder off of it, then put it on the crystal table in front of Sherlock.

“Snort it here if you want to, I’m having some as well” she said, as she prepared a line from her own provisions.

Sherlock glanced at the other man in the room, who was still typing something on his smartphone, hesitating.

“You can have some too, if you like”, he finally murmured; Jim didn’t reply, but thanked him with a satisfied grin. That image – to his very own disbelief – made Sherlock’s heart uncomfortably drop.

One at a time, they snorted a couple of lines each, while Kitty talked about everything and anything. Sherlock, though, already feeling pumped-up due to the drug’s effect, noted how frequently the Irishman glimpsed at him, clearly uninterested by the girl’s words, that unclear smirk still impressed on his oval face.

They played cards and board games for an unspecified amount of time, drinking beer and smoking Kitty’s high-quality weed. Moriarty soon revealed himself to be a top player in basically _every_ game they chose, from rummy to Monopoly. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn’t far behind him; thus, the alleged three-player matches quickly became challenging showdowns between the two men, all before the speechless and astonished eyes of the dealer, brutally left out of the games.

They’d been playing chess for over an hour now, while Kitty texted with her boyfriend, giving up any interactions with the other two. The Englishman found himself nervously biting his nails, hardly keeping himself from throwing all his pawns in the air, as the other man moved his bishop with a long and slender finger.

Jim was about to win. His eyes were gleaming in pride, and Sherlock could see the excitement in them as he nonchalantly pronounced the fatal words.

_“Checkmate.”_

Kitty, visibly annoyed by the behaviour of her two guests, rose from her chair and soothed the wrinkles on her t-shirt. “Sorry folks, but my boyfriend is coming over at any minute now, and I really need to have a shower.”

The two young men helped her put the chessboard back in silence. They collected their coats and coldly greeted the dealer, already disappeared behind the bathroom’s door, before quietly exiting her apartment.

It was already late at night, and the last train had already passed; they had no other choice but walking together, since their flats lied in the same direction. As soon as they got of the building, the cold, autumn’s wind unmercifully hit Jim’s face, making him take shelter in his fluffy black-wool scarf. Sherlock peeked at him, momentarily recalling the first time they met, and the other one caught sight of the uneasy look in his light blue eyes.

“What” James snarled, provocative, as the Englishman remained silent, “cat got your tongue?”

“No, not at all”, Sherlock impassibly answered, reaching in his pockets.

“Is defeat something too heavy for you to bear?” the other one went on, bitterly.

The Englishman took a wide breath, then he pulled a rebellious lock of curls back behind his ear.

“I was just thinking about our first encounter.”

James suddenly stopped and looked at the other one eerily, his brown irises burning with rage and his fists tightly clenched, shaking in anger. “If you think you should let me know that you feel compassion for me, that you want to show me your support and all that sugary bullshit, you can rather take your nice words and shove them up your _arse_ ”, he paused, then immediately added “And, for the record, I need no guardian angel.”

Sherlock turned his head toward the Irishman’s direction and met his furious gaze. “To be honest, I don’t give a fuck about what you do with your life” he replied, not intimidated by the other man’s angry tone, “I just did what I had to do, and I’d do it again. And, _for the record_ ” he immediately added, quoting Jim’s exact words, “I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I’m one of them.”

The smaller man bit his lower lip, moving his eyes away from Sherlock’s. “I won’t say thank you”, he feebly muttered, after a few seconds of silence.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Fine.”

They were now in proximity of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the streets were illuminated as if it was day. Just like on their first meeting, Sherlock found himself mulling over the beauty of the metropolis by night. Without the tons of people that ran up and down like ants, London’s streets were much more intimate and peaceful; it was like he could finally have the chance to spend some private time with his birthplace. He let the icy, almost-winter air flow in his lungs, then exhaled deeply.

It was Moriarty, again, the one who broke the silence. “Do you have a smoke?” he asked, avoiding to meeting the other one’s gaze.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but handed him his usual package of Marlboro Gold.

“Actually I prefer Chesterfield Blue.”

“And since when do you get to have a word on the cigarettes I smoke?” Sherlock asked, perplexed but amused by the other man’s behaviour.

James took a cigarette and brought it to his lips; Sherlock stretched his arm and lit it for him, then lit another one for his own use, taking a deep drag. The Irishman let the grey smoke out with a blow, still turned to Sherlock’s opposite direction, and then looked up at the night sky above them. 

The luminous pollution was so intense that a star was nowhere to be seen.

“You know, the zodiac signs should be thirteen, not twelve.”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, the constellations are actually thirteen, at least in ancient Babylonians’ histories. They’re the ones who invented the zodiac signs. Other cultures have recognised as many as twenty-four constellations”, James explained, slowly. “I really wonder why they left the Ophiucus out.”

“I don’t know. I’m not really interested in space” Sherlock replied, a little bit upset by the idea of being less educated than anybody else in a subject of any possible kind.

“How can you _not_ be interested in space?” the other one asked, suddenly going falsetto, shocked by the Englishman’s sentence. “What kind of scientist are you? Anyway, _at least_ you must know that it’s the Earth that revolves around the Sun, and not the contrary.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and Sherlock blushed. Besides the fact that he wondered how the other one could know that he was a scientist, he felt deeply embarrassed because he was a _complete_ ignorant in astronomy: he’d never been interested in it nor had he ever studied it. He was keener on practical knowledge, and any scientific subject potentially useful to pursue his investigations.

Jim burst into a laugh. “Damn, Holmes – are you fucking _kidding me?_ ”

As the other one kept laughing, amazed at Sherlock’s ignorance on the topic, the taller man turned his head toward him, and couldn’t keep himself from staring. James’ hair had ruffled, falling over his forehead, and his eyes sparkled with a light that he’d never seen before: he seemed, for the first time since their very first meeting, genuinely _amused_.

While pondering over the issue, Sherlock suddenly realised how close they were. He could almost feel the Irishman’s heat on his body, and count the black, long eyelashes that cornered his breath-taking hazel eyes.

“Well, I have to admit, darling, you’re just as stupid as _sexy_.”

The only thing he could think of, a bunch of seconds after, was how velvety and sweet James Moriarty’s tongue felt between his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KISSED! Finally, you'll say...what will happen next? Who knows <3  
> See you on Wednesday guys! As usual, comments & kudos are very welcome.  
> Mary xx


	7. Interstellar overdrive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is named after an instrumental song with the same title, "Interstellar overdrive". It's a song contained in the album The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Pink Floyd's very first album.  
> Together with "Astronomy Domine", it's Pink Floyd's first experiment with the so-called _space rock_. I'm a literal space nerd, so it's no wonder that these two are some of my favorite songs of all times.  
>  There are many different versions of this song, here's the link of the one contained in the original vinyl. I suggest you to listen to it while reading. <3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o2sA0vpA-4

Why did they end up in his flat, Sherlock hadn’t the faintest idea. Thing was, they were now hopelessly kissing against the front door, and he could feel Jim’s evident erection against his thigh.

John had already come back from the study-group, and was quietly sleeping in the opposite room. Sherlock knew that he wouldn’t be very happy if he found the two of them making out in the living room; thus, he tried letting James know that they’d better move to his own bedroom.

“I think – I think we should…go…”

The words quickly turned into a hungry groan as the Irishman bit the lobe of his left ear, after licking the whole length of his neck, and Sherlock thought he was about to go crazy. His skin was on fire and the only thing he could think of, in that very moment, it was how desperately he craved to possess the other man’s body.

He abruptly found himself in a completely alien situation. He had always considered sex nothing more than executing a mere physiological function, just like eating or sleeping: essentially, something that Sherlock Holmes – a high functioning sociopath, far different entity from every other exponent of his own species – could perfectly do without. He had a few, dull sexual experiences in his life, but none of them had ever been totally fulfilling, nor had he ever felt, until that very moment, the _compulsive need_ to join his flesh together with somebody else’s.

Putting up with the idea of talking, he took James’ arm and dragged him into the bedroom. As soon as they got there, Sherlock immediately shut the door behind their backs, then pushed the other man against it, pinning his hands over his head. He let one hand slip under his designer t-shirt, caressing the soft skin of his skinny tummy, while the other held Jim’s right wrist; Sherlock almost flinched when he felt the coarse cloth of the bandages under his fingers, but nonetheless he decided to ignore the memories it evoked.

He suddenly threw the smaller man on his own bed, and the latter responded with a libidinous gaze. James started undoing the buttons of his trousers, and before Sherlock could speak he was already stroking his cock over his cotton boxers, with his long and slender fingers. Sherlock pulled the other man’s dark and sleek hair, momentarily moving his head from his own crotch, only to leave a wet kiss on his luscious lips and clumsily free his lover from his t-shirt.

“Careful with that” Jim whispered against the other one’s lips, “it’s fucking Marcelo Burlon, it costs more than your monthly rent.”

Sherlock laughed, and as soon as the expensive t-shirt was on the floor, he dragged James back between his legs. “Shut up and suck my dick, Moriarty.”

“With pleasure”, the other one answered, smirking, and before Sherlock could reply he stripped him of his own pants and took his full length in his mouth.

As soon as the Irishman closed his lips around him, Sherlock had to stifle a very loud groan. James’ throat was hot and humid, and Sherlock – momentarily recalling their recent conversation about space – thought of a black hole. His lips were like the galaxies’ edge and his tongue was like a spaceship, ready to explore every tiny bit of the outer space. He closed his eyes, arching his back as he pushed the other man closer, and couldn’t help but moaning when he felt the other one’s hand slowly starting to massage his scrotum.

Sherlock softly pushed his lover away, just to lay him down on the mattress and remove the rest of his clothes, then, allowed himself a moment to admiring the man who lied naked on his bed.

He was stunningly beautiful. His thin, long-limbed body was wrapped in pale, marble-like skin that seemed made to be caressed and tasted by his fingers, tongue and teeth. His collarbone and ribs were slightly protruding, the muscles in his abdomen were just accentuated, and that ethereal vision reminded Sherlock of one of those ancient Greek statues of divinities.

Jim brought a hand behind Sherlock’s head and slowly pulled him forward. The Englishman started tracing wet kisses and tiny bites down his neck, on his hardened nipples and on his pointy hipbones, just to stop between the other man’s legs. He took his full length in his own mouth and started to suck vigorously, as the other one planted his nails in his dark, ruffled curls. He repeated the movements that the other man previously made on him, the ones that made him scream, and felt satisfied and powerful when he saw that he was able to cause the same reactions. As one hand was holding steady James’ cock, just to help him while licking the whole length with the tip of his tongue, the other one sneaked under his lover’s body and grabbed his buttock, just to make him aware of his precise intentions.

Jim chuckled, understanding right off the bat what the other man had in mind, and rolled on his side, to open a drawer in the nightstand.

“Second drawer” Sherlock explained, catching his breath.

The Irishman grabbed both condoms and lube and handed them to the other one. He went back to Sherlock’s crotch while he was ripping the condom’s package with his teeth, then leaned backwards and lied on his belly. Sherlock put the protection on then poured a large amount of product on his hands, spreading it on his cock and between the other man’s legs; then, slowly, sneaked a finger inside James’ ass.

The other man moaned in response, and Sherlock took it as an invitation to slid another finger in. After rubbing inside him for quite some time, the Englishman slowly extracted his fingers and, with a single thrust, he carefully penetrated the man under him, and had to fight hard not to come instantly.

Jim’s hole was tight just right and he could feel his muscles contracting against him, wrapping him. His body was hot and sweaty, but it felt wonderfully pleasant against Sherlock’s own. It was a totally brand new sensation, as if the two of them were two halves finally reunited to form something complete. He didn’t really know whether it was the drug’s fault or not, but he was in total ecstasy.

Sherlock brought a hand between the other man’s legs and closed his fingers around his cock, voluntarily making James groan, careless of his flatmate sleeping on the other side the wall. He grasped the other one’s hips, planting his nails in his bones, and increased the pace of the thrusts. They were both close, he could feel it as his own body was literally burning in desire, and as Jim was sighing and shaking under his touch. Thus, he leaned forward to the other man’s neck and hardly bit his nape, hammering his teeth in the Irishman’s soft and sweet flesh; they came at the same time with a single, loud moan, Sherlock inside James, and the latter on his lover’s sheets.

He’d never felt anything like that before. He had tried heroin a couple of times in his life, and he’d always been told that nothing compared to it, that the drug was better than every orgasm he could experience – _bullshit_. Sex with James Moriarty felt like fireworks, like the big bang and the end of the world at the same time, like two black holes colliding and crashing one against the other. If he hadn’t been a confirmed atheist – or either aware of being _really_ high on cocaine – he would’ve thought he had just found _religion_.

Sherlock separated from Jim’s body, careful not to hurt him, then took his navy blue nightgown from the coat hanger beside his bed and quietly got out of the room, moving toward the bathroom.

He didn’t know whether John had heard them or not, but in case he did – and it was very likely, since they fucked _really_ hard – he would’ve waited for James to leave, then confronted his best friend alone. Sherlock wasn’t really looking forward to explaining what happened that night, and had the vivid foreboding that his flatmate would’ve been quite upset.

When he came back from the toilet, after refreshing himself and throwing the used condom away, he found Jim already dressed, sitting on the bed while putting his shoes on.

“Are you sure you can walk?” he asked, grinning, as the other one was having some troubles with standing on his feet.

“Don’t up yourself too much, honey” James answered, licking his lips, “you weren’t that good.”

Sherlock chuckled, and the other one grabbed one of the Adderall confections he bought from Kitty. Before Sherlock could ask for explanations, Jim swallowed one pill and put his black coat on, moving toward the front door.

“Don’t you dare kiss me goodbye or call me in the next few days” he uttered on the doorstep, “or I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

“Actually” the Englishman pointed out, looking at him straight in the eyes, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

James smirked, and stole another cigarette from Sherlock’s package on the table. “But we both know that’s not quite true.”

And, with a door slam, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a chapter basically made of smut. I haven't had sex after snorting cocaine so I don't know if what happens is likely or not, anyway _please_ don't imitate Sherlock and Jim even if you desperately want to have sex after taking drugs now (and in case you do, it's my fault and I feel terribly sorry). And don't mix drugs too, especially don't mix Adderall and cocaine.  
>  But let's talk about happier things. What do you think about this chapter? Will Jim literally burn Sherlock's heart out? But, more importantly: would Syd Barrett be happy to see one of his dearest songs used as soundtrack to a gay porn scene?  
> Something tells me that he definitely would.  
> By the way, I have to sadly tell you that I won't be able to update on Sunday, nor next Wednesday, due to university and family issues. This means that chapter 8 (whose title comes from "Us and them", that's all I can tell you) will be published on Sunday 3rd of April.  
> See you on the third, hope you've enjoyed the smut in the meantime.  
> Don't forget to leave comments & kudos! <3  
> Mary xx


	8. Us and them, and after all we’re only ordinary men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I wrote in last chapter's notes, today's title comes from "Us and them", from the album "The dark side of the moon".

The front door closed with a rattle behind the other man’s shoulders, and Sherlock remained still in his position, listening to the creaking sound of his steps on the stairs until he was out of the building.

A few rays of early daylight shyly seeped in through the heavy, dark curtains of 221B Baker Street’s windows, and illuminated the big coat of dust that floated in the air. Sherlock didn’t know how to explain, not to his flatmate and neither to himself, what actually happened that night between James and him, nor could he give a rational justification to why it did.

Sherlock’s existence was sprinkled of many different people. Just a few acquaintances were truly meaningful to him, and he deeply cared about them: John in the very first place, Miss Hudson, Irene, Greg and Molly. There were also other ones – most of the people he knew, to be honest – as well, who totally didn’t matter to him. All of them, though, valuable or not, had something of the utmost importance in common – they all were _ordinary_. Sherlock Holmes, if there was one thing he could consider himself absolutely sure of, was that he wasn’t _at all_ an ordinary person, nor was he capable of conducting an ordinary existence. He grew easily bored with everything that surrounded him, from studying the same subject over and over again to having social interactions and, once boredom had struck him, he ended up feeling deeply depressed and frustrated. He couldn’t bear to live an average life: he constantly felt the urge to sense the thrill of excitement and unexpected, to get involved into bizarre and electrifying situations – and, just like an addict, he could never get enough of it. In the end, although it was dreadful for him to admit so, even spending time with his own best friend eventually ended up tiring him. It wasn’t John’s fault, of course, he couldn’t help it – but Sherlock and him were diametrically opposite, and there was nothing in their powers to fix it. The only other non-ordinary person he knew was his older sibling Mycroft, but the brotherly rivalry between them, and their too different personalities, set some insurmountable boundaries to their relationship.

That short, Irish young man, though, intrigued him in a way that he’d never experienced before. Since their very first meeting, Sherlock acknowledged that James Moriarty was different from every other person he had ever met in the past and, probably, he would ever meet in the future. He was like a book written in a secret language, an impossible puzzle that craved to be solved. For the first time in his whole life, Sherlock felt really interested in getting to know another person, understanding the way he reasoned and learning his peculiar habits – maybe because something told him that Jim, unlike everybody else, felt his same struggles in finding a diversion from everyday life’s boredom.

Deeply lost in his own thoughts, Sherlock turned to his table and took a cigarette from his package, bringing it to his lips and lighting it with the kitchen burner’s flame. He knew that John would show up at any time soon, willing to have a conversation that he really wasn’t in the mood for.

After a couple of minutes, just as predicted, John’s blonde and messy head peeped out of his bedroom’s door. Sherlock, hence, didn’t turn to face him and greet him; instead, he took a teapot and two mugs from the sideboard and started to make tea.

He poured some water in a metal jug and put it on the burner, waiting for it to boil, while picking two teabags of Chinese oolong tea from a light-blue porcelain container, still avoiding to meeting his best friend’s gaze.

Small bubbles suddenly started to appear from the pitcher’s bottom, and they exploded at the edge of the liquid inside it with a feeble, popping sound, shattering the otherwise unbearable quietness in the room.

“I assume you’re waiting for an explanation”, Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence.

“Excellent deduction, as always.” 

He could almost perceive the other one’s look fixed on his back. Thus, he spilled the tea in the two mugs and handed him one of those, turning toward his flatmate, meeting his deep blue eyes and observing the sparkles of infuriation shining in them.

“To be completely honest, I actually don’t have one” he then replied, exhaling deeply.

John opened his eyes wide, incredulous. “Are you – are you kidding me? You came home clearly high in the dead of the night and shagged Irene’s crazy flatmate _and you don’t even know why?”_

Sherlock took a sip from his smoking mug, remaining silent.

“I heard _everything_. I can almost tell you in which positions you two had sex. You could have least bothered not making all that fucking noise, since you very well know I have an important exam in two days and I need to sleep.”

“I apologise for that.”

“Besides the fact that you shouldn’t use drugs, much less on the very day your brother checks that you’re clean” John in the end spat out, his fists shaking in anger, “I thought you found that kind of things _boring_.”

As he pronounced the last words, the young man lowered his eyes, and Sherlock caught an expression on his face that he’d never seen before. There was a mixture of different emotions reflecting on his best friend’s usually sunny face, and he could read sadness, anger and frustration; but the most abundant one was something brand new, unknown to both of them until that very moment – something that frighteningly looked like _betrayal_.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He kept staring at the dark, hot liquid in his own mug, uncertain on the answer to give, answer that his friend truly deserved to receive at the moment, but that he was sure it would have definitely hurt him.

“He isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sherlock Holmes vs John Hamish Watson, round one. John is clearly defeated and left heartbroken...I have to apologize to John's fans but the conflict between the two best friends is really important for the story's development! Hope you liked the chapter anyway.  
> I don't know whether I'll be able to update twice a week as before, so probably I'll publish on Sundays. I have to organize a few things because I'm about to graduate and I'm really busy with university :(  
> See you next Sunday guys.  
> Mary xx


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